In the small courtyard, Liu Bei lifted his brows and snorted.
"So sleeping on the same couch, feet touching, closer than brothers… what's wrong with that?"
He said it confidently, but when his eyes drifted back to that line about "helping the general remove his armor," something in his mind twitched.
Could it be…
Did later generations… favor men in that way even more than their own time?
The thought felt a bit too wild even for him.
Besides, he had already seen glimpses of later eras through that mysterious projection. Places like the shrine in Chengdu and the bustling streets of Chang'an at night did not exactly suggest such tendencies.
No, no. That was nonsense.
He shook his head, forcefully pushing the ridiculous idea aside.
Soon enough, his thoughts returned to something far heavier.
The Southern Song truly had been merciless to that old man.
A man full of talent, yet forced to waste his entire life.
Ill for years. Watching chaos at the front and intrigue at the rear.
And in the end, witnessing an unprecedented defeat.
"This little Southern Song court," Liu Bei muttered, voice low,
"how many worthy men has it wronged? No wonder later generations speak of it with such bitterness."
Everyone in the courtyard nodded.
Before this, they could not quite understand why later generations viewed the Song with such complicated emotions. But now, knowing Xin Qiji's lifelong frustration and the farce of the Kaixi Northern Expedition…
Even they, people of a different era entirely, felt a tightness in their chests.
Especially one matter.
Liu Bei tugged lightly at his beard.
"This 'Juicy Zhuge Liang'… what exactly does that mean?"
He could guess it was mockery.
But the fact that he could not figure out how it mocked made it far more irritating.
If the word "juice" referred to a person…
Ink? Brain fluid? Gall?
"Who cares what it means!"
Zhang Fei suddenly barked, stepping forward angrily.
"A pig like that deserves to be compared with our strategist? And he still has the nerve to wave a feather fan like he's proud of himself?"
"And that poem was written by the Poetry Sage for our strategist! What's it got to do with him?!"
His fury immediately won approval from Lu Su, who spoke with rare sharpness.
"No matter what title he bears, judging by his conduct alone, he is nothing but a traitor who chased reputation."
Liu Bei nodded, then turned with a smile toward his own strategist.
"Kongming, it seems even you are burdened by reputation."
Zhuge Liang waved his hand helplessly.
Hearing later generations compare Xin Qiji to him again made him feel oddly embarrassed.
By years alone, he should be the elder. More than eight centuries separated them.
Yet reading the man's life and poetry from the projection felt like seeing, with his own eyes, a stubborn swordsman with graying hair who refused to bend.
And he himself was only in his thirties.
Under that strange contrast, Zhuge Liang could only give a wry smile.
"What later generations admire is Chancellor Zhuge Liang of history," he said softly.
"If we truly accomplish our task at Wuzhang Plains, only then might we deserve comparison."
Liu Bei understood immediately.
He had seen this mindset before. Ever since that earlier discussion of the "Prime minister of ten thousand ages," Kongming had carried an unspoken determination.
Even Pang Tong had joked privately that Kongming now seemed intent on surpassing the version of himself recorded in later history books.
Meanwhile, Zhang Fei kept staring at the projection, clearly dissatisfied.
Still no reply from that so-called "Second Phoenix Emperor."
He muttered under his breath,
"I just wanna know how the history books judge me. What's with this stingy emperor…"
Just then, he looked up.
A line of text floated across the projection.
Zhao Pu: "The Marquis is brave and cunning, every attack successful, every battle victorious. His loyalty and righteousness echo through the ages."
Zhang Fei's face immediately split into a huge grin.
"Well now! That Zhao Da's… I mean, that Song founder's chancellor, he speaks pretty well!"
Song Dynasty — Imperial Hall of Bianliang
Inside the palace hall, the eunuchs stood frozen like statues.
No one dared breathe loudly.
Each of them carefully tilted their heads, memorizing every word drifting across the projection.
From the corners of their eyes, they could also observe what was happening inside the hall itself.
Chancellor Zhao stood beside a stone table, absently running his hands over it as if studying the grain might reveal state secrets.
Court physician Liu Han sat calmly at a desk nearby, writing notes at a steady pace.
But the one who mattered most…
was the Emperor.
The eunuchs remembered clearly.
At first, when hearing about the Kaixi Northern Expedition, His Majesty had not seemed too displeased. He had even remarked to Chancellor Zhao, "At least they dared to fight."
But once that man Guo Ni's reputation-seeking behavior appeared…
the Emperor's brows had knotted tightly.
Then came the later commentary from the projection.
"That Guo Ni, that filthy coward," the Emperor had snapped earlier,
"he dared to deceive the army to such a degree?"
"To bind a fierce general and hand him to the enemy… to let a warrior feared by foes die at his superior's hands… tragic!"
Perhaps because he himself had risen from the military, the Emperor felt it even more deeply.
The eunuchs were certain that if things continued, they might witness another outburst like that infamous day when Prince Jin had nearly been accused of assassination.
Fortunately, the monk Kongjiong had already retreated to a safe distance, his expression full of concern.
But then…
when the projection showed Xin Qiji leaving behind a final poem and dying…
the Emperor suddenly calmed.
Completely.
"The glory of heroes is always swept away by wind and rain…
Good verse."
"Kongjiong!"
In the distance, Zhao Guangyi jumped slightly and hurried to answer.
"Yes, Your Majesty."
"Copy that poem. Mount it properly and place it in my study."
Only then did Zhao Kuangyin feel he finally understood the greatest difference between Song lyrics and Tang poetry.
In the flourishing Tang, frontier troops boasted of military glory and destroyed enemy states. Thus came the frontier poems, grand and heroic.
But in the Song, the lyrics carried endless national grudges, unending family sorrows, and sigh after sigh of frustration.
Later generations lamented the Han's fall despite strength, mourned Zhuge Liang at Wuzhang Plains, recalled how the An Lushan Rebellion did not topple the Tang in a single night.
And when they spoke of the Song, the loudest sigh seemed to be that the Southern Song did not deserve warriors like Yue Fei.
Which was better and which was worse was obvious at a glance.
[Lightscreen]
[Xin Qiji spent almost his entire life proving the meaning of "great ambition, unfulfilled."
Thus his death was filled with regret.
But perhaps there was also a sliver of fortune.
Because he never lived to witness the absolute farce that followed.
After the Kaixi Northern Expedition failed, Han Tuozhou refused to accept defeat.
Despite internal chaos and external threats, he insisted on continuing the war.
This enraged the peace faction.
Unable to compete with Han Tuozhou in open power struggles, they demonstrated perfectly what it meant to be fierce at home but meek abroad.
Two months after Xin Qiji's death, Shi Miyuan joined forces with the empress's relatives.
They assassinated Han Tuozhou on his way to court.
Then they cut off his head and sent it to the Jin Dynasty.
They agreed to every demand:
three million taels of silver for a ceasefire,
annual tribute increased to three hundred thousand,
and further humiliating treaty terms in the later Jiading negotiations.
The relationship between Song and Jin was lowered further.
More tribute.
All lands recovered since the Shaoxing treaty were surrendered again.
But the most outrageous act was still this:
Sending their own prime minister's severed head to the enemy court.
Minister Wang Jian protested openly:
"Han Tuozhou's head is not worth saving.
But the dignity of the state is."
And the Jin court, never missing a chance to mock, responded:
"Tuozhou was loyal to his country, mistaken only in himself.
Grant him the posthumous title Loyal but Erring Marquis."
In other words, even the Jin recognized him as loyal.
Which made it painfully obvious who the real traitors were.
Compared to Xin Qiji, his contemporary, the great poet Lu You, had even worse luck.
After the peace agreement, already poor and in poor health, he fell ill from grief.
He held on for half a year.
Before dying, he left one final line, still dreaming of the northern campaign:
"When the royal army recovers the Central Plains,
do not forget to tell your old father at the family sacrifice."]